


Rehearsals and DvD Bonus Features

by Nico_Weetch



Series: Terpsichore or rather; The Comedy of the Danse Macabre [2]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Drabble Collection, Dramedy, Found Family, Gen, Multi, Needless to say this is spoiler heavy for Terpsichore, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Some chapters will have their own tags, The Janus Order Trio aka: The Disaster Muppet Family, unless specified otherwise it is safe to assume all characters are bisexual and or pansexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch/pseuds/Nico_Weetch
Summary: The following is a collection of writing and sneak peeks about Terpsichore, some chapters will be outright excerpts from my drafts for future Terpsichore chapters, and other chapters will be written musings trying to get a feel or idea of a concept.Please keep in mind nothing in these works are /truly/ finalized, sometimes things change, ideas change, or the story takes the wheel. This is like the writing equivalent to sharing sand art hahaA good majority of these have already been shared on my Tumblr, but well, you know how easily things can be lost on Tumblr and so this might make some writing easier to access!Some chapters will have their own tags.It isn’t necessary to have read Terpsichore to enjoy these, I suppose these pieces can likewise work as stand alones!
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Nomura & Otto Scaarbach, Nomura & Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Otto Scaarbach & Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Series: Terpsichore or rather; The Comedy of the Danse Macabre [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514006
Comments: 36
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following was shared on my tumblr while I was in the process of writing Ch13 of Terpsichore ACTI.  
> As I stated in that post:  
> "I became very emotional about what is to come in Terpsichore ACT II, and that my self control is not as strong as I hoped (that and jsdjfskd I’m emotionally compromised, friends)  
> Here is a tiny preview from Terpsichore ACT II, though keep in mind things might change/be tweaked, by the time I reach this point on Ao3. This is, after all, just from my outline, and sometimes stories take on their own life."
> 
> Chapter tags:  
> found family, ptsd, bleeding, hurt/comfort, aka Nomura and her two dads

**“Can you remember whether you’d had a dream? One perhaps that seemed very real?”**

**“Oh yes.” Heidi’s eyes met his. “I dream every night that I’m back with Grandfather and can hear the wind whistling through the fir trees. I know in my dream the stars must be shining brightly outside, and I get up quickly and open the door of the hut - and it’s so beautiful. But when I wake up I’m always still here in Frankfurt.”**

******-Heidi, by Johanna Spyri**

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

Perhaps it was because of how big and hollow the house felt at times. Perhaps it was because natural light barely shined through the large arching windows, or the peeling frescos on the even higher ceiling.

When Nomura walked through the house she always felt like she was walking around the rib cage of a dead giant. 

The house felt different than any place she had lived before, and cold, as if there was always a draft yet never an open window. 

Despite all everything that had happened to her, Nomura still remembered what it was like living with her family. _Host_ family, she mentally reminded herself through reddening eyes. 

She missed the warmth, and the hugs, and the music. Oh! The music!!

How Dr Nomura would lovingly embrace Mrs Nomura after a long day of work. How they’d excitedly talk over dinner about medicine, comparing and discussing the differences between Eastern and Western techniques. And then later watch the two dance together. Stealing kisses before opening their arms welcomingly to the creature they thought was their real daughter, inviting her to dance on their feet. 

Little Zelda missed how her mother, _host_ mother, smelled and smiled, and played with her hair. She missed listening to her tell stories of home. A home Zelda barely remembered, but when listening to Mrs. Nomura absorbed her longing as well. 

The longing of the way the wind smelled sweet, the persimmon trees, the crickets at night. 

She missed it so much it ached. 

And perhaps that was why her stomach felt ill that night. 

That was why she scooted out of her far too large four post bed. Sifting her way through the gauzy curtains. She shuffled her feet through slippers and drew a silk cover over her nightgown. To search for some water that could sooth the ache of her memories. 

At least it was better than the orphanage. At least here, in this house, there were no other kids to pick fights with. To jeer and stick her tongue out at. Flinging daggers from her eyes and actual knives near their heads whenever they were rude in the cruel way angry lost and lashing out kids could be. 

Nomura was grateful to not have to live in the orphanage, she was grateful she didn’t end up being sent to the work house, or coal mines. And in all her gratefulness it made her feel guilty to want _something._

 _Something_ other than a warm bed and warm food and nice clothes and all the books she could ask for. Even the racy or controversial ones Nomura just knew that if she was caught reading anywhere else, would have probably earned her a few lashes over the knuckles with a ruler. 

She didn’t know what that something was. But when little Nomura thought of her life with her host family, it made her chest heave and ache and want to cry for hours on end. 

But tonight, she didn’t want to cry, she made a promise to herself to not cry that night. She just wanted water. 

Half way down the hall, she spotted a door cracked open. A pale yellow light oozing in a shine. Flickering with the shadows made from candle light. 

From the door, Nomura heard voices. Voices in a language she had never heard. Or perhaps she had, once, long ago. But Nomura tried not to think about her life before living with the Nomuras. And yet, this language tugged at her in the same way life living with the Nomuras tugged at the little changeling. 

The same, yet…different. Warm thoughts didn’t come to mind when she heard the language. Mental images of caverns and illuminating rocks did. And the cold, the damp cold. 

Nomura shivered and pulled the silk closer to herself. Her reason told her to shuffle on, to head towards the kitchen, and forget about this night-time adventure. 

And yet…and _yet_ ….Nomura _knew,_ somehow, _this_ was an opportunity worth observing. 

She stared at the flickering pool of candlelight, then back down the darker corridor towards the kitchen, frowned, and carefully slipped out of her slippers so to easily sneak closer to the door undetected. 

Nomura angled herself in the shadows and squinted into the lit room. A tiny hand over her mouth to mask her breath. As if observing large yōkai, and not wanting to be detected, or smelled. 

The figures in the room weren’t yōkai, they were Mr. Strickler and Mr. Scaarbach, but they might as well have been to the mind of a youthful child with a wild imagination. And oh, how that candlelight danced unfavorably with their features and faces. 

Mr. Strickler looked more ragged and forlorn than his usual composure. Side burns un-groomed like an overgrown grassy field with hidden wires. A hollow face with skeletal cheekbones, and eyes that saw other things than what was physically in front of him. Perhaps it was what Mr. Strickler saw that made him so patient. But it was always a cold patience, a distant patience, that kept everything at an arms length distance. Even from the things Mr. Strickler seemed to enjoy. 

Mr. Scaarbach did not look convincing in what could be compassion. His hand dabbing at his forehead with a cloth. In fact he looked angry. His eyes flashing as he spoke, that matched simultaneously with him striking a match to light his pipe. As warm as Mr. Scaarbach was to Nomura whenever they interacted, it always unnerved the changeling how he always seemed to smell like a furnace. 

Nomura’s ears strained to understand just what words these two were saying. She had heard them speak such a language before, but in her youth Nomura always assumed it was the secret language of adults. 

And then, as she listened on, something strange happened. As if, after hearing enough of the language, it all clicked. A veil was lifting over her ears. Her mind understood, her heart understood. 

It reminded her of her host father. How he marveled at her ability to pick up language. How he’d hug her and say, “You have magic ears, pet.” after she’d help him with a strange Danish word. 

Everything Mr. Strickler and Mr. Scaarbach were saying made sense. The little changeling pressed her hand harder over her mouth to keep herself from gasping. 

“Y-you don’t understand.” Mr. Strickler would croak. He clasped his hands together and rubbed his hairy knuckles, ‘Perhaps I’m not explaining myself.”

“Magic ears.” mouthed Nomura into her palm. 

“No. I understand perfectly, Stricklander.” Mr. Scaarbach said as he pulled on his pipe. “You saw Gunmar in Napoleon.”

“That’s far too simple of an explanation-”

“You saw him. This short giant-”

“He- he wasn’t short, Otto.” went Mr.Strickler with a touch of fear. “He..” slowly he looked down into his hands, seeing something that wasn’t in the room. “He wasn’t short.”

Pain came over Mr. Scaarbach’s eyes, seeing how easily Mr. Strickler seemed to curl. How he tried to disappear and not draw attention to himself despite being the tallest in the room. 

“I fought him, and then I fought with him and…he..he rallied people. You should have heard him talk. The kind of mind he had. The devastation he brought to the continent. Yes, perhaps I did see our Lord Gunmar in the Emperor. I saw him rise as Gunmar did, and…and fall…” Mr. Strickler ran a hand over his weary face. “What’s the point?” 

Mr. Scaarbach nodded. He sat in Mr. Strickler’s words, then crossed his legs before patiently stating the painful obviousness. “Gunmar isn’t human.” 

“If giants can fall, then what is the point? Nothing. Everything is…is..just waiting. Waiting for shadows, waiting for _nothing_.”

“You keep talking like that” hissed Mr. Scaarbach with worry turning into anger “and the Knights Guild hears you-” 

“I don’t ca-”

Mr. Scaarbach quickly threw a liquid on Mr. Strickler’s face who recoiled with a snarl.

“Don’t waste my good-!”

“-Start caring Stricklander. Pull yourself together. Do you want everything to be for nothing?”

“Everything is nothing.” 

“Mercury’s Raiders were nothing? The sacrifices to put the Janus Order together were nothing?! Blood that you spilled?!?!” Mr. Scaarbach was leaning over the table now, and holding Mr. Strickler by his cotton neck collar. “All of it was a vanity project to you?”

Mr. Strickler didn’t resist to Mr. Scaarbach’s pulling, but occasionally tried to push Mr. Scaarbach’s hand away. “No…no of course not…no” Mr. Strickler would say wearily. 

Nomura pushed her hands hard against her own mouth. Her breath quickening. She didn’t understand anything that they were saying or talking about. But it hurt her to see them fighting. 

“Their names.” growled Mr. Scaarbach. “Do you remember their names?”

Perhaps it was the candlelight, but Mr. Strickler’s eyes looked teary as he nodded. Slowly Mr. Strickler rested his head sorrowfully on Mr. Scaarbach’s forearm.

“Bular will start asking questions.” said Mr. Scaarbach quietly. “Christ when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

With a sigh that made Nomura think this perhaps wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation before, Mr. Scaarbach moved around the table and helped Mr. Strickler back in his chair. “Lets…talk about something else.”

Nomura slowly stepped away, and would have walked all the way back to her room, if she hadn’t heard Mr. Scaarbach mention her name.

Slowly Nomura tip-toed back to the door. 

“You’re too distant with her.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? A changeling never raised another changeling before.” Mr. Strickler’s brows knitted together as he sniffed, “It’s better this way.”

“Dummkopf, _how_?!”

“She doesn’t need to enter into our world yet. She’s..she’s still too young.” Mr. Strickler looked at a shadow. “She’s fed, and clothed, and is free to do as she likes. She has that freedom…for now.” 

“That doesn’t mean you have to leave her alone for hours! Do you know why she runs at me like a fully steamed train?!”

“Because you look like a walking bear with that beard.”

Nomura squashed the want to giggle. Yet her heart panged painfully. 

“Like you’re one to talk.” huffed Mr. Scaarbach. “It’s because I listen to her, spend time with her. I - I don’t need to tell you what a happy childhood is like! You’re one of the rare few that lived one!”

“The life after that is and never will be like…like _home_. There’s no warmth in the lives we end up leading. Isn’t it better to not know what you’ll end up missing?”

Mr. Scaarbach grew steely then, but whatever he ended up saying Nomura didn’t stick around to hear. Her heart was aching, and her stomach felt worse than ever. 

Tears streamed from her eyes and she felt so confused, and angry, and frustrated with all that she listened. It felt like something bigger than her. Her mind raced and buzzed as she ran down the hallways. Taking random turns and scuttling through the dark. Though the dark was never hard for Nomura to navigate. 

And then, she reached it. The room Mr. Strickler always told her never to enter. His secret study that held secret papers and secret things that he always said were ‘not important to think about right now.’ And that sad anger in Nomura grew. 

She tore at the doorknob, pushed through the oak door and entered in a rage. She wanted to tear out every page of every book in there. But she stopped dead in her tracks as she stepped into the shadow of a large music box.

The music box had intricate carvings, and was on a pedestal placed in reverent fashion for everyone who entered into the study to be aware of. 

It was clear to Nomura that this, was the most important thing in the room. The little changeling screwed her hands into fists, and marched forward toward the music box, unafraid. Woefully unafraid. 

She was going to have her music. She was going to listen, and think of her mother. Her host mother.

Meanwhile as Mr. Strickler spoke, he trailed off and perked in his seat.

“What is it?” asked Mr. Scaarbach.

“You don’t hear that?” he furrowed his brows, then gasped as he felt a strange tingly sensation crawl up his back. “You don’t feel that??”

Mr. Scaarbach sat still, and then, he too started to hear and feel it. The sound of the Pale Lady. Her reach through the medium of musical objects. Hearing Her was as strange as a moving melody that ached. Heard, and felt.

“Our Queen. She’s speaking, but…to whom-”

Mr. Strickler didn’t sit still long enough for Mr. Scaarbach to finish his sentence, he was already running down the hall with his heart sinking cold into his stomach. 

Who else could it be? What other changeling was there in his house?

“No, no no no no! Please no!” Mr. Strickler said under his breath. He pushed through his study’s door, and nearly burst into tears. 

Nomura stood in the center of his study, wailing as the music box played to her.

Mr. Strickler quickly rushed forward toward Nomura. 

“Don’t interrupt!” yelled Mr. Scaarbach over the crying. “It’s the girl’s message to hear. Our Pale Lady finally speaks!”

“She’s a _child_ , Otto!!” snarled Mr. Strickler. “We can barely stand listening to our Eldritch Queen, and we’re way past a hundred years old! She hasn’t even lived through her first century Topside!!” 

Nomura kept crying, her face beat red and puffy. Hot like a fever against Mr. Strickler’s hands. He hugged her close, and tried to shield her ears. 

“What are you doing?! Our Lady is speaking to her!!” yelled Otto pulling at Mr. Strickler’s arm. 

“It’s too much for her!!” went Mr. Strickler. After a hearty jerk from Mr. Scaarbach, Mr. Strickler noticed the blood. Blood stained on his hand and on his vest, blood that started to fall from Nomura’s ears. “Shut it off.”

“No! We, we can’t! We musn’t!! We can’t interfere!”

“Shut. It. _Off_!”

Mr. Strickler shrugged him off, and when his human form’s weight wasn’t working against Mr. Scaarbach’s corpulence, he shifted to his troll form, wings and all. 

Mr. Scaarbach fell back to the ground, face scratched some by the beat of Mr. Strickler’s wings. 

“Don’t you dare! Don’t. You. Dare!” yelled Mr. Scaarbach scrambling to his feet to impede Mr. Strickler’s walk toward the music box. 

But it was too late, with a beat of those leathery wings the music box was knocked off the pedestal. And swiftly stomped on until silent. 

The only sound in the room, after Mr. Strickler shifted again to his human form, was Nomura’s crying. 

Mr. Strickler held her close, hugging her, cooing, “It’s alright. It’s over. It’s over now. Nomura? Nomura can you hear me? It’s alright.” A little fist curled around his vest and Nomura continued to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault-”

Then, the crying stopped all too suddenly, and Nomura went limp in his arms. Mr. Strickler’s heart stopped, and was ready to never forgive himself. 

“West.” Nomura said in a strange voice. A voice that was hers, and at the same time, not her at all. “Westward further still. Beyond the desert to the sea. West. The Key. _West_.”

Nomura then went limp once more, a tired, tiny passed out young girl in Mr. Strickler’s arms. The two older changelings shared looks, and shivered. 

When Nomura woke again she found herself bundled in blankets, and held in Mr. Strickler’s arms still. His face, though sleeping, red from crying. Beside him sat Mr. Scaarbach, his arms crossed and leaning against Mr. Strickler with his glasses placed haphazardly on his forehead. 

Nomura furrowed her brows. She didn’t understand how the three of them got to this position. Yet vaguely, distantly, she remembered how. It made her head ache. 

Nomura frowned and burrowed her head into Mr. Strickler’s shoulder. Sniffing in her attempt to rub the memory of the music box out of her head. 

A hand consolingly rubbed her head slowly. Distantly, very distantly, she heard a croaky sleepy voice. 

Nomura looked up, and saw Mr. Strickler awake and staring worriedly at her with a sad smile. 

“Good morning Nomura-chan. How are you feeling?”

Nomura pouted, but didn’t respond. 

Mr. Strickler bit his lip and leaned to glance at her ear, “Can you..you hear me?”

Nomura leaned away, and gave a pouty nod. 

Mr. Strickler gave a relieved sigh. “I see…Nomura-chan I, I have to say. I’m sorry about-”

Nomura gasped, and sat up straight realizing something. With both hands on either of Mr. Strickler’s shoulders she said, a little too loudly, “You’re speaking Japanese!!”

Mr. Strickler worried face melted into a relieved chuckle. “Yes. I can speak many languages, you know. And I’m sure you can too.”

“Dad said I have magic ears!” Nomura explained with a childlike wiggle.

“Did he now?” went Mr. Strickler, a touch of sadness in his voice. “And..how are your ears?”

Nomura frowned, “Ringing…like…” and Nomura sang one lone continuous note. 

The longer she sang, the sadder Mr. Strickler looked. Paternally he cupped her face. “I’m sorry.”

By then Mr. Scaarbach was making a face as he was pulled from his sleep. Peeping at the pair of them with one eye. The whiskers of his beard twitched. 

Nomura clapped her hands over her mouth and sunk in Mr. Strickler’s arm. “Sorry.” she whispered.

“It’s alright.” consoled Mr. Strickler. He elbowed Mr. Scaarbach some. “We needed to wake up anyways.”

Mr. Scaarbach, though relieved the young changeling was feeling better, wasn’t ready at just how well she was feeling. 5am feeling soundly too soon for childlike antics he grumbled and stretched and said, “I’ll make breakfast for us.” and patted Nomura’s head as he went.

That morning Nomura didn’t eat alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little something that was shared between close friends, but keep coming back to in terms of potential. Don't know if this will end up being incorporated in ACT II (which you might guess is a little more Nomura heavy) but I just keep...thinking lol
> 
> For context this is set in the 1920's. 
> 
> Or as I put it to some dear friends; "Something something ACT II something something 1920s:"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: 
> 
> wlw, suggested something between Nomura and Nancy, super short

Nomura kissed her.

Nancy was so surprised she nearly tipped her drink. Instead she inhaled deeply from her nose, and, with a gentle pull on Nomura's wrist, reciprocated ten fold.

By the end Nomura was breathless, self-conscious of her lipstick, and starstruck.

Nancy tilted her chin on to her knuckles, and smiled. "I like you girlie. You've got _grit_.”

"Y-you're not so bad yourself." breathed Nomura with a poor attempt at a cool composure.

Nancy giggled, "More spunk than a firecracker." she looked Nomura over wistfully and sighed. "But you're too young for me."

"I'm twice your age!" Nomura sparked, offended.

Nancy giggled, a hand still over Nomura's wrist. She then tapped her temple with her other hand. "Mentally." Nomura scoffed pink. "You're as spoiled as a bratty boarding school graduate." she squeezed Nomura's wrist ever so gently. "And you're _wonderful_. But I... I just don't have time for that - too much on my plate as it is. But _oh_ ~" Nancy sighed inching closer. "If I were free, had even just a few less responsibilities..."

Nomura gulped under Nancy's gaze, and felt seen in such a way she had never experienced. Seen, and with ever inching step, emotionally having her clothes stripped away.

"..The things I'd do..”

Nomura felt electric, and she was sure that Nancy could tell how fast her heart was beating. Just like she was sure of Nancy somehow knowing about how the sweat down her neck would be like.

"Another time, perhaps, in a less chaotic life." said Nancy, kissing the corner of Nomura's lips, and then her brow, "I'm sorry." She brought her palm to cup Nomura's cheek.

Nomura leaned into the touch, and felt her eyes glisten. When she felt Nancy about to walk away, she gasped and clasped her hand to keep it on her cheek.

"What about one night?" Nomura heard herself say, hating the pathetic desperation in her voice. Nancy stilled, and stared. "Just, just one night."

A sympathetic smile crept over Nancy, and bloomed warm and lush. Slowly she started to thumb Nomura's cheek. "Oh darling, you deserve so much more than just one night."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps one of the first writings that revolves around Major John André and Walter Strickler (who goes by Strickland and acts as both a whaler and later on a quartermaster). I have been tickled pink by the concept of this relationship for years and have been wrestling with the idea of how to bring it up in Terpsichore proper. 
> 
> At one point I even considered creating a fic that solely focuses on Strickler and André's relationship together as well as their spying shenanigans. 
> 
> The Tumblr summary is as follows: "it’s safe to call this is canon within the Terpsichore universe ( the concept of their relationship at least, there’s still so much to flesh out and think about. All the same Major John André is for /sure/ one of Strickler’s past loves)"
> 
> //
> 
> There will be no internalized homophobia in MY period piece nonsense!! But these two characters /are/ emotionally restrained dweebs. Cue the melodramatic harpsichord cover of Mitski's "Strawberry Blonde" please! 
> 
> Needless to say this is.... /very/ self indulgent haha
> 
> For context the piece in this chapter is set in the 1700s Revolutionary America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags:  
> mlm, Explicit, oral, lighthouse sex (Please read responsibly) 
> 
> You can learn about the real historical Major John André here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_André

The New York heat stuck to every surface. From the floorboards to the creak of the door in the tavern. The way the humidity hugged the face. How locks of hair would stick to sweaty skin.

It could drive anyone mad. But uniform is uniform no matter the season. And so the good Major placed a chilled kerchief to his brow. Dabbing it slight to ease the sense of being stuck in a bubble of heat. All while not breaking eye contact with the bar maid.

A curvaceous woman with rosy cheeks. Although whether the rosy completion was from the heat or her good humor was yet to be established. In their gaze, her blush deepened all the more. Not that the Major planned on doing more than amuse himself with a good flirt. After all he had a schedule to keep, and a meeting to honor.

Feeling satisfied the Major checked his pocket watch once more. Seeing the hour, he stilled himself from the rising worry André was trying to keep to the back of his mind.

“Steady on.” he comforted himself before sipping his beer. Hoping the taste of hops could distract himself with how late it was getting. Carefully the Major returned the glass to his table. The sound of a pair of heels clicking was heard in the same tempo of the Major’s heart picking up.

A gentleman stepped into the Major’s line of sight. The Major’s eyes trailed upward at the sight of the man. A lanky man with long curling dark hair. Skin tanner than leather, born from long hours under the sun. A hooked nose like a falcon’s beak, smelling of brine and hickory with a long pipe hanging from his lip. The Major rested his viewing journey on the man’s set of impossibly still evergreen eyes.

“Well.” Smiled the Major, clasping his hands together on the table, “If it isn’t the whaler.”

“Aye.” winked the whaler in a way that made the Major’s mouth twitch. It reminded Major André of their first meeting; during a street side brawl.

A brawl like no other that bordered the animalistic. That intrigued the Major, and brought these two together as a start of a rather interesting, and soon to be very close, partnership.

The whaler lifted his floppy hat some, respectfully. Causing a few wispy curls to fall over his forehead, “So it is, sir. Mind if I share your company a while?”

“Please.” gestured the Major, “There’s always space at my table for a good yarn.”

A grin spread over the whaler, a row of teeth gritted on the bit of his pipe. Humor twinkling in the whaler’s eyes. “Much obliged.”

As the whaler sat down, the pair of them shared a knowing joke. After all, the supposed whaler was a spy, and with the coming war the whaler Strickland would prove to be quite useful as Major John André’s man.

The Major flagged down the bar maid with a polite raised hand. The two ordered more drinks. Talked of nothing, the weather mostly, conflicting news from a farmer’s almanac, and then, with a knowing calculating twinkle the Major leaned forward and asked, “So…what news does the sea bring my goodman? What new tales from The Charun?”

And so the whaler would tell his seafaring tale. Or rather hidden news, reports, and intel of the rebels disguised as a story.

As the days went on, these meetings grew more frequent. They also grew longer as they found great company in the other. Time would seem to warp when they conversed. A second of philosophy turned quickly into 3 hours. A discussion of new inventions of a half hour, turned into having to be requested to leave at final call.

One night, after one of these time warping discussions and deep drinks into their glasses, the tavern grew dizzyingly hot. So dizzying that the Whaler Strickland and Major André’s hands did graze, ever so briefly, above the table.

Instinctually the two retracted their hands, in fear, and shock at such sudden intimacy. A fumbled apology graciously rectified the situation. Clearly it was the heat. Clearly it was the drink. Clearly the summer heat was dizzying that any gentleman might lose their bearings.

And yet their cheeks were as red as Major John André’s uniform.

Awkwardly they’d avoid eye contact. And without the other noticing with their eyes looking elsewhere, they’d observe the other.

Strickland would note how André’s fingers twitched against the glass. Attempting to draw some sort of coolness from the glass, to ease the beating heart rate in his pulse.

André would note how Strickland’s ears, even in their tan complexion grew darker with a reddish hue. How Strickland’s eyes, normally so still an unnervingly unmoving like a nocturnal animal, shifted unable to stay still. 

The Major also noted how Strickland worried ceaselessly at his pipe, and gulped.

“Some fresh air, perchance?” offered the André.

“Yes!” agreed Strickland with a slight crack in his voice. The whaler cleared it and said again, calmer, “Yes.” Though his eyes were more erratic than ever. 

The two paid for their drinks, and took to walking through the balmy New York evening heat. 

Their buckled shoes clacked over the cobbled stones. The streets themselves weren’t very crowded, and both André and Strickland suspected that perhaps it was later than they both originally thought it was. 

The distant chimes of the clock tower confirmed this. Sending the Major and the Undercover Whaler into fits of laughter so strong that Major André nearly lost his kerchief. 

Luckily Strickland was lithe enough to catch it before it hit the path, in a smooth almost far too elegant to be human move. Strickland straightened himself, thumbing the cloth ever so slightly before giving it a tiny shake and presented the kerchief. André stared without moving.

“Sir?” asked the whaler. Confused, and misunderstanding André’s silence. In a bout of self consciousness Strickland looked at his hands. Attempting to lighten the air with a joke he grinned through his pipe, “A good wash and a bit of perfume should get the smell of fish off it, I’m sure.”

This seemed to break André’s trance as he huffed an amused smirk. Taking back the kerchief with an upward zeal. “Stuff and nonsense.” without so much as waving it in front of his nose André stated, “It smells good.”

It was Strickland’s turn to gawk. Except André wasn’t as patient as the whaler was. Quickly initiating the return to their walking. Their pace was far more brisk this time around.

//

Another late evening found the two of them walking yet again under the cover of night. This time, they were closer to the pier. The two of them had been noticed walking together before by the officers. Not that it was the subject of talk or rumors. 

Yet Strickland could tell there was a dark thought that preoccupied the ever cunning mind of his companion. He noticed something was awry when the sound of chatter from idle infantry brought a huff out of André. 

“Lets not walk the pier.” suggested André, stopping in his tracks.

“Oh? But you enjoy it when it’s high tide. And you have yet to show me this special view you mentioned.” went Strickland softly. Distant laughter trailed over. And André looked away. Witness to this reaction, Strickland’s heart traitorously sank. “I see.”

A hollow chuckle escaped the whaler. Feeling himself foolish. After all he wasn’t walking with just anyone. He was walking with an officer, and noted Major. _The_ Major. While he was merely, well, not even in uniform to say the least. 

It was Strickland’s turn to have his brows darkened. Undercover or not. The whaler, no, the _changeling_ felt exceptionally foolish then. 

In the summer heat, the air chilled around them. 

When Major André turned back to Strickland, he sighed at the brooding sight of his companion. Hurt to see him so put out. Desperately, André searched his companion’s darkened features.

In a huff the Major gripped Strickland’s forearms tightly. “No.” he said, as if ordering the creeping negative thoughts out of the whaler’s mind. Strickland’s face shot up in shock. 

Slowly André’s hands trailed down the length of Strickland’s arms. Passing the cuff and ruffle, gripped the bare callused flesh of Strickland’s hands. 

Strickland felt himself no longer able to breath. 

“It isn’t what you think.” reassured André in a soft voice. “I don’t care who sees us.”

“Sir!” Strickland exhaled at last.

“I simply do not wish to be accosted with talk of, of Military. Of planning. I do not wish for my mind to return to such things right now.” André’s thumb grazed ever so slightly over Strickland’s knuckles. His own voice growing low. Gentle, “I wish for my mind to seek refuge with you tonight. With your voice, your thoughts, your opinions. With you, alone.”

Strickland’s breath faltered, and the summer heat became sweltering hot once more. Stifling even, as words stuck to his throat. 

André gave his hands the slightest of squeezes, and the blush that spread over Strickland’s sun tanned cheek’s and ears grew more noticeable. 

Unsure how he was able to stand, Strickland took a step closer to André. Closing the space between them, speaking in an equally gentle tone. Just above a whisper. “Sir. The view you wished to show me. Was it the lighthouse?”

André looked up into those impossibly still evergreen eyes. Felt his own insides tremble at the intensity at which they stared. Standing so close as they did, the Major never realized how tall the whaler was. Nor the little moles and freckles that lightly scattered over the bridge of Strickland’s aquiline nose, and cheeks. 

André began to wonder how many other moles and freckles lay hidden, sprinkled beneath the whalers clothes. The Major gulped, and realized Strickland was still waiting for an answer. 

“Yes.” André admitted at last with a shy smile. “To see the view.”

A smile slowly dawned on Strickland’s features. Equally shy. “Of course, Sir.” The tall whaler took a step back, breaking the closeness that had grown in their moment. And gestured down an ally. “This way, Sir. I think I might know a trick that might get us there without being flagged aside.”

“I should like that very much.”

The two went into the shadow of the ally for the briefest of moments. And reemerged with André wearing Strickland’s long coat. His uniform and rank hidden beneath the whaler’s coat. The collar of which was raised. 

Strickland himself didn’t mind walking without the jacket. His pipe bobbing along on his lip as they made their way down the pier with a nervous electrified zeal. 

“How do you stand the heat of this thing?” André asked from beneath the coat. Not without humor. 

“I enjoy the warmth it can retain. I chill easily. Perhaps it’s my reptilious heart.” 

“Stuff and nonsense.” snorted André. “You’re as warmblooded as they come, Strickland.” 

And it took everything for Strickland to stop himself from turning and grasping on to André then and there. 

“Yes. Well.” went Strickland, worrying his pipe. “Not too far now.”

//

Usually a lighthouse worked not only as a beacon in the night. A warning to sailors during rough seas, to stay attentive of the rocks and shore. But also, as a living abode to the people who ran the lighthouse. 

This night, Strickland was not too surprised to discover, the lighthouse was empty. With only himself and André to stare off at the rocking waters below. The whaler had a hunch that the lighthouse’s emptiness might have been premeditative. 

The awkwardness that grew with each step higher into the lighthouse confirmed this. 

As well as a dire awareness of Strickland looking up at André’s behind as they marched upwards. André could practically feel the unmovable gaze shift in the dark. The observed and observer knowing they are observing and being observed. Welcoming it. 

André found himself trying to guess what part of himself Strickland was gazing at, and his cheeks grew rosier. 

Half way up the lighthouse André nearly found himself out of breath, and slipped on a caved stone step. Only to be caught by the secure arms of the whaler. Who’s grip was surprisingly light under such calloused hands. As if clutching a bird’s egg.

“Are you alright, Major?”

André looked up into Strickland’s face, surprised and comforted all in one. Readjusting his footing, André’s cheek nearly brushed against Strickland’s. “Yes.” he said, cheeks feeling warm. “Yes, quite. Thank you.”

“Shall I lead the way, Sir? I’m rather good at seeing in darker surroundings.” 

The Major laughed at that. Smoothing his hair in the process. “By all means.” gestured the Major with an open palm. 

Strickland smirked with a little knowing twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of catching the Major. Perhaps it was the privacy of the narrow lighthouse staircase. But it was then that the whaler reached out his calloused rough hand, and gently clasped it around the Major’s. 

“Very well.” said Strickland softly in passing. “Hang tight.”

And André did. He squeezed Strickland’s hand as he did before. Though as they traveled upward on that spiral staircase. His thumb did wander over the calluses of this undercover whaler. 

It surprised the Major. How many calluses could one hand have? André had shaken hands with sailors before. And yet _these_ hands. The whaler’s hands, _Strickland’s_ hands, bore the roughness of a sea of troubles that no man with a normal lifespan could achieve. 

As if hearing André’s internal thoughts, Strickland spoke in the quiet dark. Between the seaside wind that whistled now and then through the damp stone walls. “Rough, I know. Not much grows from salted earth, I’m afraid.” 

Major André struggled with this cryptic meaning. And yet was filled with a want to prove the whaler wrong. Palming the rough hand, André lowered his lips ever so slightly. Halting himself in a moment of panic, misplaced insecurity, and loosing his chance to kiss into that palm as the door to the exterior opened. Bringing with it a quick gush of night air.

The air was thick with brine and the smell of sea spray. André gasped, catching his breath with a hand to his breast. Their clasped hands, fall away under the watchful eye of the stars. 

Together they leaned on the railing, elbows ever so close to touching. Looking out into the moving living horizon. Despite the roaring crash of the waves, it was quiet on the lighthouse. 

Just as quietly Strickland began to fill his pipe with tobacco. André watched the whaler’s meticulous hands at work. The punctilious care of his fingers. How it gently pressed the herb into the bowl. Coaxing it, padding it lightly. Filling it. 

Another blush started to grow on the Major’s face, and he is unsure how much more of himself he could keep check. With nothing to worry his own hands over, the Major fixed a calculated stare at the moving waters. 

It was Strickland’s struggling with lighting the pipe that draws the Major’s eyes back from the horizon. He watched how the whaler tried to pull and puff the pipe to life before the match would be blown out by the wind. Cursing as he waved away the little match between the black smoke.

It would be a lie to say it didn’t amuse the Major some. Yet he was never a gentleman who enjoyed the sight of torture, and took pity on his companion. 

“Here.” went André, cupping his hands around the bowl. Blocking the match from the seaside wind. They shared a look. André gave an encouraging nod, and a flashed smile of, “Go on then. Just be sure to share afterwards, hm?”

The whaler’s face lit up with delight, and with the glow of a newly lit match, “Aye, aye.” he smirked.

André could feel the projected warmth of the match spread on his palms. Stilling his own lip as he watched Strickland pull on the pipe, finally managing to light the tobacco within. The whaler jerked his eyebrows cheekily. And between the newly light bowl, the match, and the closeness of their faces, it was unclear what glowed brighter.

Strickland, without breaking eye contact, tilted his head upwards, and exhaled the smoke slowly and languidly above them. André didn’t dare look away. No matter how much the Major yearned to look at Strickland’s briefly exposed Addam’s apple. 

Lowering his head, Strickland passed André the pipe. Their hands grazed once more in the process. Though this time neither of them shied away from such a touch. And just like that, at the risk of the pipe going out, they lingered. Captivated by the each other’s eyes. 

//

The pipe was forgotten, on the floor. No longer outside, as the lighthouse’s light swirled rhythmically in its swooping trajectory around them. A pulsating under rhythm to their own frantic heavy breathed movements. 

Their teeth crashed like the waves below. Artlessly they fumbled at waistcoats and jackets. Pulled at drawstrings and trouser buttons. Moving between deeply planted kisses and face cupping, and the combing of long hair. 

As the Major worked on Strickland’s buttons, and kissed into that Addam’s apple he so desired to kiss his mouth upon, the whaler’s breath stuttered and hitched. Grinding encouragingly while he breathed in the Major’s well groomed strawberry blonde hair. 

Strickland pressed his hands to André’s back drawing him closer as he worried André’s earlobe and caressed his now bare neck.

“Heavens above.” breathed André, struggling to undo Strickland’s buttons. Easing into the enjoyable distraction of Strickland’s passing hand that cupped the Major’s bottom. Oh how the Major wished his bottom was already bare. 

André’s breath hitched, his erection aching for more than teased confined attention. Struggling against his trousers and Strickland’s hand. “Christ Strickland” he barely breathed, forehead resting into Strickland’s shoulder. Kissing into it as his eyes screwed more shut. 

Strickland lowered his head, kissing into André’s hair, temple and brow. He purred low and animal like into the Major’s ear a balmy question “Was this the view you wanted to show me, _Sir_?” 

André’s eyes popped wide, an internal competitiveness brimmed with the equal desire to see Strickland’s face become undone with desire. 

The Major grasped Strickland’s disheveled shirts, and guided the whaler to be pinned against a wall. Strickland hummed. Perhaps it was from the swirling light of the lighthouse, rhythmically making its rounds. But André could have sworn Strickland’s eyes momentarily lit up like candle light. 

It fueled André all the more. André pressed against Strickland, trailing his mouth over the whaler’s bare neck and collar bone. Kissing into Strickland’s jaw. Strickland allowed André’s hand to press into Strickland’s mouth. They hummed and moaned at the sucking sounds and feeling that followed. How Strickland willingly closed his mouth around the length of André’s fingers. Pulling on it like his pipe, licking it wet. 

“That’s right.” panted André, as he coaxed Strickland on with his spare hand, causing the whaler to moan against his fingers. “Ready your spirits.”

“Ready, Sir. For you- oh, ohou, I’m _ready_.” Strickland struggled to pant with André’s fingers in his mouth, and his other hand trailing below his trouser. Thumbing and teasing with pinches and thumbed circles of his hip, and thigh. A moaned sound that could have been, “ _please_ ” followed. 

André slowly and meticulously slipped his fingers out from Strickland’s mouth. Letting his fingertips linger on his lower lip. Feeling the whaler’s pant on his nail and knuckle. 

“Alright.” cooed André. Shimmying Strickland’s trousers down as he pressed a gentle kiss into him. “Alright.” 

They pulled apart long enough to look at the other’s flustered completion. André cupped Strickland’s cheek. And Strickland, without thought, pressed his temple against André’s. 

“Sir, I-” went Strickland, trying to suppress the begging want in his voice. His erection pulsing bare with anticipation. 

“I know…I know…” smiled André soaking in the sight of him. 

“You’re a tease, Sir.” went Strickland, unsure how he wasn’t seeing his own breath with how warm he felt. Pulling at André’s shirts.

André grabbed a cusp of Strickland’s hair. Coaxed him close as he said, very seriously, “That’s Major Tease, to you.”

They stared at each other for as long as they could before breaking down into a tittering fit of laughter and giggles. Their laughter followed them in a gentle embrace that continued amorously to the floor. Where they would move in one another as the waves did move against the rocky coast of the lighthouse. Where sweat would form as salty as the brine. Where laughter turned to heavy panting and moans. Moving in various tempo changes as the lighthouse’s swinging light acted as their metronome.

//

The seasons changed, and although summer ended, turning to a golden fall, their friendship grew tenfold, as did the frequency of André and Strickland’s meetings. Though, try as they might, war was on the horizon, it was a fact. And with it André grew to appreciate the whaler’s own tactical mind. 

So much so, that he needed his undercover man elsewhere, in many places in fact. No longer only the whaler, but an officer. A quartermaster to a 75 gunned ship of the Royal Navy. Strickland would quickly earn a reputation as the Gentleman of Many Hats. Rumors would claim him to be impossible to follow, as if capable to change face and disguise himself at will. 

When hearing this one night in the parlor of Major John André, dressed smartly in blue and golden buttons, Strickland spun on his heal and floated into a sofa with burgundy tassels. Cat like humor on his lips “Change at will? Now _that_ is a thought!”

“I’m serious Strickland. That’s quite a reputation to be proud of.” André lifted a glass of sherry in cheers, “Admirable.”

“No, no.” Pressed Strickland, wanting to explain “I mark the skill of it. I simply know a chap who’s skill in changing faces is far superior to my own.”

“Oh?”

“A Hessian friend of mine. Otto von- _something_.” Strickland pretended to struggle with the name, scratching the side of his nose “Can’t quite place it. Heard of him, Sir?”

“Can’t say I have.” said His Majesty’s spy master André.

“Then clearly he is better at this than I. It’s the ghosts you don’t know one should fear, not the phantoms in plain sight.” mused Strickland with an idle waving hand that found a crystal glass filled with sherry pressed into it. André’s hand lingered there. Not retracting after handing off the delivery of sherry. Slowly André placed his index finger over Strickland’s. “Sir?”

“Drink with me Strickland.”

“Jealous?” Teased the now quartermaster, “I assure you we’re not as-”

“Stuff and nonsense.” huffed André. The Major leaned down, smirking all the while, “I merely enjoy how you weave your words around.”

“It’s what happens when your mother is punched in the mouth by Arachne.”

André rested his arm at the back of the chair, pinning the quartermaster in his chair “Oh? From my observation; I fear you have the makings of an old man.” mused André. “I’d hate to see your old soul age you so quickly.”

“Coming from such a kindred spirit as yourself, I’m surprised.” Strickland looked at their overlapping index fingers, then the glint he had come to recognize rather well in André’s eyes. A cat like smile grew on Strickland’s face, “Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

The Major smoothly lifted Strickland’s other hand, and kissed into his calloused palm. “Perhaps.” he said, and leaned forward to kiss Strickland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, perhaps one day I'll write a fic that is solely about the two of them. We'll see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following is a super rare Terpsichore ACTI ch15 sneak peek...kind of, I'm actually heavily considering cutting this - not because I don't like it (because frankly I adore it) but because it might disrupt the flow of the story where this bit would have initially been placed. 
> 
> There's a VERY good chance I'll use it for later chapters in ACTII, in the meantime instead of collecting dust in my drafts you might enjoy it!
> 
> For context this takes place as a sort of flashback. In which Strickler and Barbara have a heart to heart in bed, and Strickler brings up André.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: 
> 
> Stricklake, barely suggestive moments, SUPER ROUGH DRAFT, survival's guilt, hurt comfort

[Barbara discusses the time a person flirted with her while she was waiting for a connection flight ]

“No idea he was flirting with me until I inadvertently turned him down.” she explained, still feeling bad. “And, well I suppose, I was really tired, and working on 3 hours of sleep. I wonder what would have happened if I had agreed? If I just talked a bit longer, would I be where I am now?” wondered Barbara out loud, cupping her hand thoughtfully on her own cheek.

“Who’s to say.” Smiled Walter, “Airports can be pretty dazzlingly magical in their own way.”

Barbara gasped, coming out of her own wondering daydream, and looked back at Walter. 

His head rested to the side on his shoulder, nude hairy chest exposed from their shared blanket that was gradually slipping on its own from his shoulder. Barbara, for whatever odd reason, so desperately wondered what a laurel would look like on him.

“A place of comings and goings.” he added with a trace of wistfulness of his own.

Barbara hid her face in her hands in embarrassment, “Oh Walt I’m - I’m so sorry.”

He looked at her quizzically. His hand tentatively resin on her bare back. “What…what on Earth for?”

“Gah! I can be so myopic!” she scolded herself into her palms while digging her heels a little. Walter was just about to comment on his fondness of her habit of hiding behind her hands, tentatively reaching to touch the side of her palm and part her hair, when, Barbara dropped her hands abruptly.

With a turn she held Walter’s shoulders. “Here I am, in bed with you no less, talking about some other random guy who’s name I don’t even know! And - and wondering if life might be different if a conversation turned out, well, _differently_!!”

“Perhaps things would be” he chortled along with her little shoulder shakes. Unable to contain the fondness in his voice at seeing how Barbara’s forehead crinkled.

He licked his lops, and let his gaze drift to the side pensively, “Perhaps it would have been for the better…”

Barbara shook his shoulders at that, dragging him from his guilty train of thought.

“-Or worse!” he added successfully dragged to the present, “much worse!” he laughed.

Barbara stopped shaking him and hugged Walter close, “I’m sorry I brought this up,”

“What?”

“-I shouldn’t have. It was rude - and -”

“Barbara.” Interjected Walter, just stern enough to cut her off. He pulled back enough to gently cup her cheek, and said in a far softer tone “Barbara. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Barbara rested her hand over his, contemplated removing it, but instead leaned into Walter’s palm, pressing his hand against her more.

Walter started to thumb her cheek.

“But I talked about someone else.”

“And I learned something new about you in the process. I'm touched you felt comfortable enough to share that with me.”

“Really?”

He kissed her cheek, “Very really.” Then with a naked laugh he added “After all we’re friends.”

Barbara laughed with the force of bundled nerves being released. It was like untying the knot to a complicated balloon design. She felt exhilarated even. It was as close either had ever gotten to talking about their relationship, and any sort of labeling.

“R-right?” Walter heard himself say. He was over a hundred years old, and now wishing he could hide his face behind a pair of hands. Walter wondered if perhaps he misunderstood their arrangement, perhaps he had missed something, or-

The wind was quickly knocked out of him as Barbara latched her arms around him and held him close, “Absolutely.”

Walter’s shocked arms hovered slightly before resting around Barbara pulling her tighter to him. When another bundle of nerves dispelling into the night air like the fire sparks of a campfire, Walter and Barbara looked into the other’s eyes, and gently, delicately, tilted their heads for a kiss. A kiss as soft as a velveteen sky.

“Though with all things considered.” Barbara whispered, motioning her eyes towards her naked form on his, “We’re moving dangerously to best friend material.”

“Oh dear!” he snorted. Muted, like a violin.

With a contented shared smile, Barbara nestled closer to Walter’s chest. Making a pillow of his chest hair.

“I’m glad to be your friend.” Barbara whispered into his collarbone, turning her head, almost to hide from his reaction. Just the smallest knee-jerk need for a barrier. The want to be seen, and the lingering hesitance to be seen.

Walter blinked ahead, and strained to look down at Barbara with his mouth agape. All the gentleness in the world couldn’t describe the changeling’s feelings for her, and it terrified him _immeasurably_ so.

Barbara, able to hear his heart rate, smiled into Walter as it picked up, and snuggled closer. “I like that we can talk like this. It feels so…I want to say ‘easy’, but I don’t know if that’s the right word. Cause it’s..more than that…and it’s not always ‘easy’ easy.”

“No?” Walter croaked, voice sticking to his throat.

Barbara smiled, “I get butterflies in my stomach too, you know.”

Barbara might be able to hear his heart rate start racing as if it were at a derby, but she certainly couldn’t hear Walter’s internal screaming. His eyes looking around his room. From the wooden wardrobe, the ink crosshatched drawing of an ornate balcony, the green tapestry with white crotched nearly nude images of the allegories of Fire, Air, Earth, and Water, respectably in French as; Le Feu, L’Air, La Terre, L’Eau, and his personal leaning tower of books on his bedside table. It was as if it was finally hitting Walter that Barbara was in his room, and they have been close, intimately so, for a very long time now. This was real. This panic was real. This feeling of warmth was very real.

And despite the feeling of dread, and terror, and duty to the Janus Order and his brothers and sisters, in the here and now, what shone was Barbara.

Gunmar was gone, trapped away in the Darklands. The changelings were on their way to starting to accept life without Gunmar, some of them at least. He had things under control with Jim and Angor, or so he’d like to imagine.

Couldn’t he be allowed to tentatively imagine as things going well? That things will turn out just fine? That he too could have another chance at..

He let out a burst of a laugh, a fluttering kind, and drew Barbara even closer, “Have you been listening to my butterflies?”

Barbara hummed and patted his belly with a nod. Her pinky threading through the hair just below his navel.

[SOMETHING]

“James never liked it, when I talked about…other men, or experiences.”

Walter frowned, fondness replaced with coldness, “I don’t much like that man. From what I’ve heard of him he sounds atrocious, and, if I might add, abysmal to the grotesque, and down right stupid for his actions against you, and Jim.”

Barbara, blushing deeply under his gaze, quickly snorted into her hands, and shoved her shoulder against his. “You could just call him an asshole like a normal person.”

“I could, but I won’t.” Something cruel twinkled in his eyes. A small something that Barbara didn’t catch. Like the glint of a dagger in a dark room.

“You’re such a dork.” Barbara sighed, removing her hands from her face. She turned and started playing with his thick spongy hair, in a manner of attempted adjustment “At least have the decency to warn me next time you say something so intense with hair that looks like you just had sex on a rollercoaster.”

For effect she combed through the side of his hair, and could only stop half way through before her fingers became tangled.

“I thought it, oof, it added to my, oh ak” Walter winced at Barbara’s untangling attempts,”Added to my, hss, feral charm, oh, hang on- let me.”

“They’re stuck!” She explained miserably. Embarrassment deepening her blush.

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” he mused.

“Oh my god this is embarrassing.” Barbara said into her other hand.

“It’s fine, just…hang on, you’re fine.”

Barbara peaked behind her fingers and watched Walter’s concentrated, and likewise blushing, face. She smiled.

“There!” he brightened like sunshine. Her hand freed while the bit of hair that had tangled it stuck up on its own now.

“Dork.” she said again, with more feeling, and a want to say ‘I love you’ that scared the good doctor.

Walter gave a shyer smile, and batted his eyes prettily.

How could Barbara resist to do anything but collect as much of his torso close, and gently pin him on his back to gift kisses as soft as cotton candy on his cheeks and lips.

“Thank you for listening” she breathed, “I thought I unlearned this unease-awkwardness? Whatever it is.”

He gently took her hand, “That’s alright, these things…take time.” he then kissed into her palm, his breath a soft breeze over her digits, “I like learning about you.”

She caressed his face, and together they leaned in for another kiss. A kiss that lingered and drew out sighs. A kiss that grew into more kisses, and had Barbara rolling onto her back while hands wandered, and legs coiled, and-

“Wait!”

Walter froze in place, and looked her over hurriedly. His first instinct to see if there was something wrong, or hurting (despite being bonded), or-

“What about you?”

“About…me?” he repeated, not entirely processing the question.

“Yes, silly, you.” she held his face delicately in her hands. “We talked so much about me, I, I want to learn about you too, you know.”

“O-oh.”

“This is a two way street.” she paused and kissed the corner of his shocked mouth, “You know that, right?”

“Y-yes!” he said, wishing he sounded more believable.

“Oh Walt.” she said, starting to realize she could see past his outer confidence. She wasn’t the only one still working through things. No one really is. Barbara wondered if it was selfish of her to want to be let in more into Walter’s world. A conversation for another time, she thought while thumbing his cheeks. “You fool.”

Walter kissed into her palm with a half smile, and nodded in agreement.

She ran a hand over his hair, careful not to get tangled this time, “Is it something you don’t want to talk about?”

Barbara felt Walter bit his lip behind her palm.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s alright. I just thought…well..you hear me going on about James and Jim and Harvey, and heck even the random guy at an airport! And I thought…well..” Barbara fumbled to explain. She felt so clumsy, she might as well be tripping over banana peals. Or attempt ice-skating on soap suds. “I want to hear about you too. I feel like I..I get glimpses and not, not the whole picture. You hardly ever…I mean you do, sometimes, but…I just..Gah! I shouldn’t have, I’m sor-”

Walter stopped her apology and the incoming impulse to hide behind her hands with a kiss, and then gifted another kiss on her crinkled brow that he was so fond of. Then another tender kiss on her lips that brought her to wrap her arms around Walter’s head and shoulders.

“I want to tell you.” he breathed when pulling away at last. She was right, of course, he hardly gave the full picture of himself, but how could he? Surely he could allow himself to open up a little more, not only for fairness but…Walter then smiled and added, “He’d want me to tell you too.”

“He?” she fluttered, “Oh! Oh!!”

Walter smiled, pressed another kiss into her cheek, and helped her sit up.

It was time to speak of André. Major John André to be precise. 

[ But then I thought Future Me(tm) could deal with that, so I didn't write it. But it would then somehow tie in to the following...]

“Can I, may I ask how?” she asked gently.

Strickler cleared his throat “Ah,” rubbing the side of his face he made a choice, “Cancer. Of the throat.” he said, adjusting the tale to a modern 21st Century setting. How could one explain a hanging with ease? It was the 1700s for heaven’s sake.

[ ...which leads into ]

“I came to his door to,” he licked his lips, as if he could still taste the stray gunpowder, the burn of flintlock, “-to help him. And…he didn’t want my help. He wanted to go on with his way. His thoughts, his ideals, his,” his voice quivered as he looked to the ceiling unable to stop a smile and a glint of misty tear as he thought of the fool behind bars, “his beautiful _morals_.” Strickler grew quiet for a long time. Then said, very softly, “He died later…I found out about it.” witnessed it.

Barbara gasped slowly, a hand over her mouth. “Oh Walt. I’m, I’m so sorry.”

He smiled, and patted her hand gratefully, while feeling far away. She placed her other hand over his. It was like being touched by a lifesaver when at the risk of being lost at sea. He was always thankful of her touches.

“You must have loved him very much.”

“I…” Strickler looked down at the hand squeezing his, and allowed himself to admit the truth out loud. A truth that had not been spoken in three century’s time, “I did. Very much. I still do in a way. In that, well, ‘all love is eternal and different’ mushy way.”

Barbara smiled, encouragingly, and rubbed her thumb against his delicately. “I’m familiar with that ‘mushy way’.”

“But he’s dead now, for what feels like over a hundred years now, and I’m…I’m still here,” he shrugged and a tiny soft “still alive.” slipped past his lips before he even noticed what he had said.

Before his eyes could grow darker, stray to darker corners, to parts he pushed into trunks inside himself, locked away, a bit of what he’d swore to himself he’d deal with alone, creaked through the keyhole- his face was being held.

A soft ginger sort of cradle he wasn’t expecting.

“Hey..” said Barbara softly. She bit her lip for a moment, “I’m..I’m glad you’re still alive. Cause I got to meet you, and gained a very good friend.”

His chest grew and deflated with a quivering heave, and before Barbara could second guess if whether or not she said the right thing, or questioned the phrasing of her sentence, Walter hugged her, tight and close.

They held each other tightly for quite sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I can't stress enough how the above is a super rough draft. But I am deeply fond of it, and am saddened by the thought I'll probably have to cut in in ACTI 's ch15.  
> I deeply enjoy the friendship deeply engrained in Barbara and Strickler's love. Friendship is very important to me when it comes to relationships, as well as how it's okay to talk about past experiences!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the following while trying to get a better handle on Draal and Nomura's relationship (back in 2019), as well as practice on getting a better handle on Draal as a character. 
> 
> In terms of context, although I don't know if I'll use this piece later on, this is set in a vague time in Draal and Nomura's relationship.  
> Nomura is confronted, her infiltration to Trollmarket revealed, and it is alluded that she and Draal were arms dealers. 
> 
> The reason behind having Draal be a potential arms dealer came to me while watching S1 of Trollhunters, Win Loose or Draal (?), where Nomura tells Draal, "Suddenly you're honorable?" ((which spiraled my imagination cause that kind of suggests that Draal /wasn't/ always so honorable, you know?? GAAAAAH! ))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags:  
> Dromura, hurt comfort?, its kinda bitter sweet lol, bad spelling
> 
> their relationship isn't what the kids would call "the /healthiest/" but that has yet to be explored, and it is cathartically fascinating to me.

“When were you going to tell me?” approached Draal.

“How long did you know?” responded Nomura with little remorse to be found. 

Silence fell between Nomura and Draal, and the wind passed through them. It made the grass and bushes shift, and Draal’s weapons cart creek. 

Draal scratched his own chin, and thumbed his nose making the nose ring bounce on his face some. “I’ve, had my suspicions for a while.”

Nomura nodded, crossed her arms and looked down at her hooves. “What, what tipped you off?”

The way the moon made Nomura’s hair glossy was hard to look away from to Draal. It was the hard look of Nomura’s glowing green eyes that drove Draal’s own eyes to look away. 

The troll cleared his throat. “Well.” said Draal leaning against his cart, it creaked under the added weight of his arm, “There are no troll groups on the other side of the canyon that I’m aware of. And, the troll group you said you were a part of…the one that got separated, re-joined with us months ago.”

“Then why did you keep doing business with me? If you know who- _what_ I am, then you know who I work for.”

Draal nodded acceptingly. “Well, they say you always get what you bargain for when you make deals with imp-changelings. They’ve a way with deals, and a handshake, ironically, like iron.”

Nomura’s jaw stiffened, her hand clenching. Eyes unwaveringly hard. She steeled herself anticipating Draal’s train of thought. Though no amount of steel could prepare her for the soft look that followed. 

“As much as I felt hurt when I found out, as much as I was headstrong thinking I could find a way to make this work…I didn’t at all understand what that meant. Not at first…I wanted to use you, just as you were using me…and so I bargained on you…I, I didn’t plan on my heart to be part of the bargain too.”

Nomura swayed a bit where she stood, her arms loosening. She didn’t anticipate the swell in her heart. It confused her, angered her, and most importantly, irritated her. 

“ _What_?” was all she could exhale. 

Draal leaned away from the cart, giving the cold weapons inside a glance, before daring to look back at Nomura. “It’s why I stopped them from using that gaggle-tack.” Draal walked closer as he spoke. “It’s why I kept wanting to see you even after brokering arms-deals. It’s why I…why I invited you to the festival I…despite everything screaming inside me saying this won’t end well.” He stopped in front of her, the moon framed between his horns. Though as much as he wished to cup her cheek, Draal didn’t dare move. 

Nomura’s breath hitched, she cursed herself for the knot that was growing tighter in her throat. Her eyes shifted back and forth trying to keep up with her racing mind. Thoughts jumbling, and tripping over themselves. 

Her heart fluttered with adrenaline. But for the life of her, Nomura couldn’t tell if it was with the excitement of the Trollhunter’s son so perfectly setting himself up to be used like the changeling’s third rule, or because of something else. Something, like a rarity. A chance. To be a heroine like Nomura’s beloved operas. 

And as if reading Nomura’s mind, Draal continued with, “For all I know this could be a perfect chance for you to use me still. You could be planning through that right now. After all, all I’ve known from you so far has been an act. You can keep on acting. And yet…” Draal shook his head slowly, undeterred by the guilty expression lining Nomura’s features. “…Yet, when I look in your eyes there’s something more. Could be wishful thinking, but there’s chance for good in you Zelda.”

“I’m not good.” croaked Nomura. 

Draal’s smile was slow forming, but as soft as his eyes. With this, he dared to bend down lower. His voice a gentle whisper. “I know it was you who saved those troll whelps during the flash flood.” Nomura’s eyes started to prickle. “That you shaded them from the sun while they were passed out.”

“I’m bad, not a monster. Anyone would’ve-”

“-Really? Even Bular?”

Nomura didn’t have an answer for this, her eyes lowered, and her cheeks became streaked with silent tears. “They were just whelps.” she said, as if this was an excuse for kindness. “Everyone was a whelp at some point.”

“Even changelings.” 

Nomura lifted her head, her eyes watery and blobby with emotion. 

“You can change for the better, Nomura…you don’t have to, _be this_.” Draw urged between Nomura’s sniffles. 

She cleared her throat and shook her head. “I don’t have a choice, Draal. Just like you don’t have a choice in being the Trollhunter’s son.”

“There’s…there’s always a choice. I have to believe that…and I, I hope you can come around to believing that too.”

Nomura laughed, but her heart ached with yearning all the same. Rubbing her face with the shake of her head, Draal would have been discouraged, if it weren’t for the smile peeking behind Nomura’s palm. 

“This won’t end well.” said Nomura, “There’s no way this could end well.” 

Slowly, Draal lowered Nomura’s hand away from her face. It was so small in his large stony palm. He turned her hand over in his. “There is a chance it won’t, I won’t deny that. There’s a chance this could end beautifully.”

“Even if there’s a chance I’m using you?”

“There’s still a chance I’m using you too.” Draal pointed out. He pulled her closer in a sweet-tempered way. “I’m willing to take that chance with you. Even if betrayal can be part of the deal. I want to know you, the real you.”

“Love…doesn’t end well with changelings.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” Nomura thumbed her eye with her free hand followed with a small bitter laugh, “I don’t know…it’s rare…there’s a story I know that helps explain it.”

“Perhaps…” Draal shifted, lowering his head closer to Nomura’s, “perhaps you can tell it to me, one day.”

“Perhaps…” Nomura was quiet for a long time. Slowly her hands snaked up Draal’s jawline. “I suppose we’ll…just have to see….how it ends.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An 1800s scene between Strickler and Nomura in which the older brother/paternal vibes are strong" 
> 
> I decided to add this, mainly because I myself nearly forgot I wrote it!! Originally this was part of an 'End of the year meme' ask! 
> 
> One of my favorite things I can't wait for when it comes to writing ACT II is Strickler and Nomura's relationship through the 1800's-present, exploring the growth, distancing, near falling apart, and growth again. 
> 
> The 1800s was not a fun time for Strickler, but there's one thing he's grateful for about the period its having Nomura in his life.
> 
> Its been hinted at before in Terpsichore but Strickler really is the depressed disaster Valjean to Nomura's Angry and capital R -Romantic Cosette, but I'm getting ahead of myself. 
> 
> In this piece Nomura is rather young, and still respects Strickler. 
> 
> Also, I should add, I added some very minimal edits to the piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags:  
> Father/daughter like relationship, changeling feels, (found family, signs of ptsd

Mr. Strickler’s suitcase was wide open, and to little Nomura it was like gazing into a treasure chest of silks and fabrics. 

She peaked over her shoulder, to check if Mr. Strickler was still fiddling with his cravat, before gently spreading her hands over the textile treasure trove. 

Silk, cotton, taffeta, wool - it was all a sensation to her little hands. It made her think of her parents - _host_ parents, she reminded herself and she sighed with a pouty frown. 

She lowered her head to rest it on a finely embroidered vest - with little paisley flowers and intricate greens - and ran her fingertips over the bumpy stitching. 

She would have very well fallen asleep there, engulfed in her attempt to remember her host father’s cologne, with little pebble sized tears forming, if Mr. Strickler didn’t curse at his own reflection. 

Nomura jolted, and a few laid out shirts tumbled with her. 

“Oh! Oh.” Went Nomura wiping any signs of her crying as she scampered to pick up the shirts. 

“Nomura?” Turned Mr. Strickler, removing his pipe entirely from his mouth, “I didn’t know you were still in here.” 

“I’m sorry.” She said quickly, doing her best attempt at a proper fold. “I should have made my presence known. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry.” 

Mr. Strickler frowned, not from anger, no, but from a twang of sadness. He rested his pipe on his armoire. It tipped as he passed, spilling the contents of cold ash. But it was no matter. 

“That’s alright. They’re just things.” He soothed. 

“But..but - _your_ things.” 

He gifted a broken smile, “Be that as it may be- it’s still things.”

This didn’t stop the growing risk of Nomura crying. Nor her anxiety of being sent away from the house, even if she did know it was an irrational anxiety, it still gripped at her - a fight or flight that wouldn’t leave her. She didn’t want to be sent back to..to..

Mr. Strickler cleared his throat as awkward as sandpaper. It had been so long since he last worked with children. And he felt less confident in his patience to hear children’s tears, not like as he once did. His war worn ears were tired of wails, it made of think of widows and the rising population of the fatherless, and _mud_ , and- his ears were ringing.

Nomura placed a lopsided folded shirt in his hands, “I promise there’s no hole in it.” she held her hands deftly together, as if waiting for some sort of inspection from a stern headmistress.

Mr. Strickler looked down, and to the bewilderment of Nomura, started to laugh. It sounded, surprisingly airy. Wheezy and pitchy, like an old basset hound whose bark, with age, was all air. 

Nomura’s hands gradually relaxed, she felt like she could breathe a little steadier too.

“Well I should hope there’s at least _one_ hole. For where shall I put my head?” He demonstrated by failing to put his head through a sleeve, “or my arm.” He then placed his arm through the middle. 

Nomura covered her mouth, but that didn’t stop the ring of her giggles. 

Mr. Strickler couldn’t stop smiling. “Come now, I hear children find quite a bit of joy in the mischief of other’s clothes.” 

“Maybe.” Smirked Nomura like a well whiskered kitten. The final entanglements of anxiety falling away like a loosened rope dropping at her feet.

“Maybe? Well…then perhaps you wouldn’t like to try anything on.” 

Nomura bounced on her toes and her eyes went wide, “Oh _really_?!” 

“Alak- ‘maybe’ isn’t a yes.” He said sonorously, leaning back and looking to the distance. 

“Yes yes _yes_!” Jumped Nomura with all the boisterousness of a firecracker. 

“Alright alright!” Went Mr. Strickler, whose “Settle down now” fell on jumping deaf ears. 

He quickly forgoed any attempt to quiet Nomura and instead started removing clothes from the suitcase, spreading them on the bed to display a variety of choices. 

Nomura beamed at such a sight. It was one thing to see clothing stacked and folded in a suitcase, but laid out and presented?! Almost at once she started to run in place before shooting off like canon fire trying to decide which article of clothing to try on first. 

She was immediately attracted to the embroidered vests, some with taffeta twist. Though on her person was as long as a dress. But this didn’t hinder Nomura’s creative mind as she used a sash to give the vest a belt. 

For the sake of a smile, and good cheer, Mr. Strickler allowed a vest to be ruined as he tried to appease Nomura and do what he could about turning a cufflink into a broach. The outcome was, not the greatest, but to Nomura it was a _treasure_. 

Standing in front of Mr. Strickler’s long mirror. With a vest as a dress, her own dress skirting out from the bottom, Mr. Strickler’s large shoes that jutted out clumsily from the hem, and an oversized horse fur hat; the look was almost complete. 

Yet the pout on Nomura, and the dramatic huffs as she looked herself over made it clear to Mr. Strickler that something might be amiss. 

“What now, you wee imp?” he chortled without looking up from re-filling his pipe.

“Something’s missing.” said Nomura, hands firmly on her hips. Scowling at her reflection as if it were a great offense (as opposed to the sheer delight her outfit brought her mere moments ago).

“Oh? And what might that b-” Mr. Strickler looked up in time to see Nomura shuffle dangerously towards some hanging cravats on the vanity mirror. He nearly had a heart attack as he, gangly legged and all, bounded forward to try and stop the vanity from crashing down on Nomura. 

Nomura, oblivious, said, “One of those! One of those would make this perfect! Oh wouldn’t you agree?”

“A cravat?” he breathed, more winded from the sudden adrenaline. “I..look, I’m not good at those these days” he dismissed, “This game has been fun, but really-”

Nomura looked up at him with great big green hopeful eyes. 

“Oh come now, there’s no need for low blows.”

Nomura continued looking up at him. And even did the dreaded sad head tilt and slow drop in gaze before pouting out from beneath her brows.

“You _are_ wicked.” Mr. Strickler groaned, running a hand over his face. Sighing he fished for his pocket watch, and resigned himself to the notation that he was going to be late for his previous engagement. “Alright…we’ll, ah, figure this out together then, hm?”

“Victory triumphus!” 

“Aye, aye.” sadly smiled Mr. Strickler as he used his arm to demonstrate a variety of cravats for Nomura to choose from. 

Nomura, after a great deal of consideration, ended up choosing a deep plum colored one. And together, they tried to figure out the best way to tie a cravat. Nomura proved to be far more patient than Mr. Strickler anticipated, and was a great help when his hands started shaking too much that he had to resign to pointing and directing Nomura what to do.

It took a few tries, and the bartering of sweets so that Mr. Strickler wouldn’t smoke, but a great deal of laughter all around. And in the end the outfit was a surrounding success. 

So much so that it earned Mr. Strickler a hug that he did not anticipate to such a degree he almost cried. His gangly arms hovering before lightly patting the young girl’s back awkwardly.

“What’s wrong?” asked Nomura, “Did my broach pinch you?”

Mr. Strickler chuckled and shook his head, thumbing his eye as the cufflink glinted at him. “Oh no. Just…I’m just a bit tired is all.”

Nomura nodded seriously, “Past your bedtime, hu?”

“Yes, I..suppose, something like that.” he said, braving a smile. Then with a sniff he asked, “Think you can help me put one on? I’m - I can’t - I..” Mr. Strickler couldn’t bring himself to admit to the truth just yet. 

“Not to worry, it’ll be another victory triumphus!”

Mr. Strickler nodded with grave seriousness “Indeed ma’am. With your help, indeed.”

And the two snickered and laughed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a tiny taste of Barbara’s ACTII arc aka: Barbara and Her Unfun Times With Suburban Gothic Americana (Or ‘Yikes!’ for short). I'm completely sure this scene will probably be different by the time I reach it in the actual fic. 
> 
> It's /super/ rough, I nearly forgot that I wrote this and it was almost lost to the Tumblr tags, I've always been a fan of how dark and dry doctor humor can be and really wanted to explore that more with Barbara, and who better to explore that with than her best friend? 
> 
> This was originally written in 2019, I lengthened it a /tiny/ bit, mainly so I can hint at another relationship dynamic I'm really excited to explore: Barbara and Toby's. Surrogate parents is quite the heavy theme in ACTII and I've always been curious about how Toby could potentially see Dr Barbara Lake as a surrogate mom, which I'm sure would bring about a lot of complicated feelings when you're impersonating your best friend with a glamour mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags:
> 
> macabra jokes, this scene is set in a morgue, death is discussed, hurt/comfort, suggested loss of patient due to lung problems (if this is, understandably, uncomfortable it's alright to skip reading this. Please remember to take care of yourselves.)

“I need to get my hands on a cadaver.” said Dr Barbara Lake very seriously. As if there was any other way to speak of cadavers.

Dr Anna looked up from her writing, then clicked her pen a few times before saying. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You just embodied the spirit of every doctor before the 21st century right there, and I wasn’t ready.” explained Anna her monotone humor as present as ever.

“Aaaw, what? Then who am I going grave robbing with later?” went Barbara sweetly. 

“You do realize you’re in a morgue right?” 

“You know,” went Barbara, removing her glasses, “I _knew_ I needed a new prescription.”

“Pff, alright. What’s going on this time?” Anna paused, and furrowed her brows, “Is this the Dry Land Drowning Case again?”

The air of tomfoolery dropped then. And Barbara looked paler than one of the bodies on the slab. “No.” she said in that evident sort of ‘no’ that was trying very desperately to not be a ‘yes’. As if the case wasn’t something that had become her hyperfixation in an almost unhealthy manner to try and grapple with all the things she couldn’t understand.

“Barbara.”

“It’s just…to compare…I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Barbara” Anna repeated quieter, standing to her feet.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t give me that tone.”

“It isn’t a tone.” said Anna, _definitely_ in a concerned tone.

“It is! It’s the ‘oh time to handle Barbara like she’s a crystal figurine cause she hasn’t been herself lately’ tone.”

“Oh Barbara.”

“Look. I know things have been strange, I’m just, just trying to fix things okay?”

“Barbara honey, solving this case isn’t going to, to bring back any memories you’re struggling with,” Anna bit her lip and tentatively stepped closer, “ _or_ is it going to make Jim act any different.”

Barbara froze very still then, deep down she knew Anna was right, and she hated to admit it.

The glass in the upstairs fish-tank started to crack with growing pressure.

“It’s like he’s a totally different kid, Anna,” Barbara admitted at last, her voice throaty and crackling like the upstairs fish-tank, “I…I don’t know who he is anymore.”

Anna quickly stepped closer, and hugged Barbara. Barbara didn’t raise her arms to match, but ultimately lowered her head into Anna’s shoulder.

“Then shouldn’t you be talking with him instead of chilling with some dead bodies and examining lungs?”

Barbara nodded somberly, “God Anna I..I don’t know what’s going on anymore…I’m just…tired…” she said in that same way many people tend to say ‘tired’ to mean other things. “I’m _tired_ Anna.”

“Have you considered taking a break?”

Barbara sniffled, “Can’t afford it this month…especially with all those house repairs.”

“The ones you don’t remember?”

“ _Please_ don’t get me started.”

“Okay, okay…well, you should try and take it easy all the same.” Anna pulled back enough to wipe some of Barbara’s tears.

“Try and have a heart to heart with Jim tonight, okay? Maybe you’ll both feel better.”

“I hope so.” frowned Barbara.

“Maybe you can have a cook off.” Smiled Anna, “Since his skills depleted a bit you can see who can make the worst omelette.”

At that Barbara gave a snotty chuckle, hiding her nose with her hand as she looked for a tissue box.

Anna smiled and walked to the nearest box, and pulled her portable hand sanitizer from her pocket. Which Barbara thankfully used.

“Barbara?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about your patient.”

Barbara gave a slow nod.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was thinking about this today, and had a bit of trouble finding the OG tumblr post, so here it is again~
> 
> Original 2019 Post Summary: A little Terpsichore blurb I stumbled on while looking through my notebooks as I continue to piece together ch13 like a madwoman’s grafting project.  
> I just think it’s neat - unsure how or when I’ll use it, but I’ve always enjoyed the thought that Trolls get this super uncanny vibe off of a changeling. And the underlining true horror that the uncanny-ness is doubled when they know /who/ the changeling is, cause otherwise it could be anyone. Your neighbor, your friend, your drinking buddy. Without a gaggle-tack there’s this underlining sense of paranoia that has haunted the community - yet no one wants to talk about it.  
> The devil is in the details, and when it is seen - it can’t be unseen.

For a troll to look at a changeling in their troll form while fully aware the creature was in fact a changeling causes the same uncanny guttural reaction wolves must face when confronting domesticated dogs.

The phrase ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing’ has the potential of working here, but is equally not _quite_ right. For it isn’t a discussion of wolf vs sheep. Instead a different phrase should be used; a dog in wolf’s fur.

What speaks like a wolf no longer moves like a wolf. What smells like a wolf no longer looks like a wolf. Features are altered and trained, instincts are bread out or highlighted depending on what the domesticated job requires. 

Will it be herding? Or guarding? Hunting bears or foxes? Pitching tents or assassinating in the dead of daylight?

And so the members of Trollmarket recoiled at the sight of Strickler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably re-use this in future chapters somehow, perhaps even in ACT I's ch15.  
> All the same I can't help but not mention that when it comes to Changeling uncanniness my mind always wanders back towards William Gibson's "The Belonging Kind" (the how and why I'll try and articulate better in the future)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I happened on this again by chance while looking through some of my older tumblr posts, and am really happy that I did! Some interesting ACT III shenanigans 
> 
> Tumblr Summary: A small blurb I wrote and shared with @danger-flammable (a3rie on Ao3) that I added a little more to afterwards. It’s set before Walter goes to Barbara’s doorstep...I don’t know if I’ll use it for Terpsichore, we’ll see. The scene is set in S3, so, so far down the way I don’t even see the horizon of it in Terpsichore haha
> 
> This is with the context that Strickler has chickened out on talking with Barbara before, and Nomura gives a pep talk...kind of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags:   
> Found Family/Sewers/Hurt Comfort/Alcohol

"If I die."

"When you die." corrected Nomura, not at all amused by Strickler's dramatics.

"I request you play the glorious sounds of sweet 80's synthesizers over my dust."

"Just fucking go already." She said, rolling her eyes while she tried to start pushing Strickler through the door.

"Someone should quote something," Strickler draped an arm over his forehead, "I don't know what..." Nomura gave a grunt at his continued resistance to being pushed, "Something that speaks about the disillusionment of war, and the futility of life." he looked over his shoulder and politely suggested, "Hemingway?"

"That could work -though [grunt] he was an asshole."

"Yeah, he was wasn't he? Then again-" Strickler looked purposefully towards the ceiling.

"God damnit."

"-I too, am an asshole."

"And a coward of a tool - now go before you chicken out again!"

This time Nomura kicked him towards the door. It wasn't enough to send the changeling flying, but enough to get him going. 

Dropping the theatrics Strickler rubbed his rump and sighed, "Y-yes." he cleared his throat before fishing for his car keys, "You're right." he admitted giving a genuine small smile, "Thank you for-“

Nomura, with a deadpan look, closed the door on his own face.

Strickler shook his head, and looked towards his car begrudgingly. Worry and excitement filling him. His hands felt clammy around the wine bottle. 

He was half way to his car when Strickler heard from the window behind him Nomura calling, "Hey! Jiji! You got this!”

And of course, as we know, he doesn't in fact 'got this' 

[ Sometime Later ]

“Oh my god - did you write this??” Nomura waved one of the papers of poetry that scattered the sewer ground around him. She let out a long whistle with a cheshire cat grin, “You’ve got it baaaaaaaaad - I mean it was obvious before - but this?!” she waved the paper at him, “This is a whole new level of dramatics! _Who_ are _you_?!” she joked. 

Strickler grumbled and took another swig from his bottle. Nomura smiled pityingly, he hated that more. 

“Look- Strickler...” she bit her lip and sighed - sitting next to him, “Walter.” she corrected allowing a moment of familiar informality between them. “You can’t keep chickening out. You should just talk to her.”

“I did.”

Her face slacked, and Nomura rested her elbows on her knees, “Oh.”

Strickler nodded and, with his face towards the sewage, without looking at her, passed her his bottle to share. 

“It’s for the best, this way - really.” Strickler reasoned aloud, “It was selfish of me to assume -”

“Definitely.”

He gave her a look.

“It’s always selfish to assume.” Nomura clarified. 

Strickler nodded a, _you’re right_ , and returned his gaze to the sewage, “She deserves better.”

“Probably.” 

“...you’re, not good at this, are you?”

Nomura smiled and took a swig from the bottle before passing it back to her old mentor, “Not at all.” she grinned. She then leaned forward slightly to keep eye contact with the older changeling, “But would you really believe anything else during your pity party?”

Strickler exhaled a smirk despite himself, taking back the bottle, “Not likely.”

Nomura gestured a, _there you go_ , and leaned her head against the wall. “You’re paying for my dry cleaning by the way. Of all places - _ugh_ , why is it _always_ the _sewers_.” 

“Seemed ideal for a shitty attitude.” 

“My goooooooooood.” Nomura groaned, she groaned louder still when Strickler started laughing. “Can it, Jiji. Now pass back the bottle.”

Strickler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and swore he saw a smirk on Nomura’s face. 

They’d sit together like so, passing the bottle back and forth until it was empty. Until Strickler felt ready to leave. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was initially planning on sharing this after ACT I of Terpsichore was finished. This ended up not being the case. That in mind this is a VERY Spoiler heavy chapter as it has rather blunt hints as to how ACT I is going to end. The tantalizing choice is yours if you want to keep reading regardless. 
> 
> This is one of the first segments I wrote for Terpsichore. It is intended to show up sometime after the midway point in ACT II. At its bare bones it is my take on the whole "Nomura going to get Strickler to come back" 
> 
> I'm sure by the time I reach this moment in the fic proper there will be changes - but this version holds a deep place in my heart all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags:  
> Hurt Comfort, found family, signs of ptsd, changeling feels, Nomura and Strickler shenanigans

Heels clicked and clacked on the docks as a cool wind grazed and passed through, coming off the sea with a minimal amount of sea-foam spray. Nomura passed fishing boats, and yachts, and sail boats of all sizes. All of which had a number of nautical flags, and flags of various countries, representing them, flapping between energetic and lazily in the wind.

Her shadow casted over onto the greasy port water as little silver schools of fish swarmed boats (especially those with small children giggling while throwing crumbs of old bread into the water).

Finally she stopped at a medium sized sailboat (sails tied down - being docked and all), called The CharunII.

A man sat in the middle of the deck, absorbing sun in a foldable lawn chair. He nursed a drink and scratched at his beard.

There was hardly any reaction at seeing Nomura. Merely a deadpan slow slurp as sunglasses reflected onto the other’s sunglasses.

Nomura motioned to step aboard, he tutted at her.

Nomura groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose, there wasn’t time for this. “Permission to come aboard, Stricklander?”

“Denied.” he said, and took another sip before leaning his head back into the sun.  
She balled her fists and came aboard anyway.  
“Take your shoes off at least.” He then sighed and added petulantly, “..just washed the damned thing.”

At this, Nomura complied- not that she didn’t have the balance to walk around a slow rocking ship with heals, but it was easier to walk on a boat with no shoes. Not to mention that on her way over she saw one of the bigger naughts rock fiercely from an incoming wave - who knows how Strickler’s sailboat would fair).

“Just missed carnevale I’m afraid. I heard the floats this year were amazing. Francesco,” Strickler gestured to the boat beside his own, “ my neighbor - is still tracking in confetti on his boat.” Strickler raised a small fishing harpoon (usually used for hunting octopi), “Not a step closer.” he warned.

“Strickler, there’s trouble.”

“With a capital ’T’ and that stands for ‘P’ and that stands for Pool.” He singsonged.

Nomura groaned and ran a hand through her hair, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m many things.” he cheered raising his glass.

“A tool for one.”

“Possibly-” Nomura grabbed the drink from his hand. “Do you mind?” he leaned back shaking his now invisible cup holding hand.

“Stricklander you need to come back to Arcadia.”

“Things go south with Draal again?” he drawled.

Nomura slapped him so hard Strickler’s sunglasses wizzed off his face, glided across the deck, and was nearly donated to the sea.

Strickler nodded his head repentantly with a face that read, _I deserved that_.

“With the Janus Order.” She corrected him with a cold even voice.

He sighed, and tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully, before getting up. “How did you find me anyway?” he asked placing the harpoon safely away.

Nomura had to start following him around the ship while she spoke. “The logic was simple.”

“Ouch.”

“You have a boner for ambitious successful rulers and generals.”

Strickler paused in untying a rope, and looked at his groin, then back at her.  
Nomura ignored this. “You felt the need to banish yourself after helping the Trollhunter. While still wanting to enjoy some _comforts_ \- so like a certain Napoleon.”

“Vive le France.” he chorused in dryly.

“You sought to cast yourself off to Elba.” the motor was run-in now, but Nomura was too much on a roll to notice, and continued, “Except Elba doesn’t have a big enough port to accommodate a foreigner’s ‘boat house’.”

“How astute.”

“Then there’s the small detail of having hacked into your offshore assets, the withdrawal of money from one Wallace Strickland - yes I know” she interrupted herself “ the name meaning of ‘French Foreigner’ did _not_ escape me. And don’t even get be started on the utter transparency of naming a sailboat The Charun II.” The boat starting to rock a bit more.

“How did you even know about The Charun one?”

“You’re not the only loosed lipped drunken changeling. I’ve heard the American Revolutionary stories. Ye olde Whaler.”

He made an awkward sniff as he add more force to the knot he was working on “One tragedy at a time, thank you.” and turned away to say something in Italian to someone on the dock.

“So!” Nomura continued over the rising beeping sound and motor “what’s the biggest port with a 2-3 hour timetable away from Elba-?”

“There’s a reason I always liked you.” Strickler interrupted and finger wagged before lifting Nomura up and onto the bridge, back onto the dock.

“-Viareggio?!” Nomura blinked, astonished with a growing fury to find herself off the boat. Beside herself as Strickler silently traded her shoes for his drink.

“Thank you for holding that.”

“Stricklander!” she snarled as the sailboat started to drift away. “There’s a chance Gunmar is _back_ \- everyone is in danger _including_ your favorite Trollhunter - and his _mother_ by extension.”

Strickler’s pompous face, that was celebrating his own cleverness, slacked at this. His shoulders drooped.

Without a word Strickler turned his back to Nomura and walked away.

“Coward! Selfish - low coward! To think I ever even looked up to you!!!”

By the time she finished her stream of insults the engine was off, and a rope was being flung her way.

“Give that a pull,” he sighed, “and throw me that.” He pointed to another rope fixed to the dock.

Together, with an uncanny demonstration of strength for such human shaped creatures, the boat started to glide back.

When the sailboat was close enough, Strickler held out a polite hand to help Nomura hop on board.

“Ah bella figa!” called a nosy neighbor who had watched the whole ordeal casually with a cigarette. “Ma è lei? Quella di cui hai parlato? I suoi capelli non mi sembrano rossi come il cuore di un vulcano. O è un’altra?”  
[ _Translation: “What a beauty (but said impolitely)! But is it her? The one you talked about? Her hair don’t seem red like the heart of a volcano to me. Or is she another?_ _]_

“Torni a Pisa Fra.” Strickler waved wearily. He dared not look back to see Nomura’s reaction. “You can wait below deck if you like. There’s some bread and water - _perhaps_ biscuits. Can’t recall.” and with that continued the routine to leave port.   
[ _Translation: “Go back to Pisa Fra._ _]_

Nomura chose to watch the process.

It took a good 30 minutes to be far enough away from the port and other boats to stop the engine and raise sail.

“Mind your head.” Strickler called as the sail swung around.

Aside from that Strickler didn’t talk or joke, just fixed himself on some nautical destination Nomura couldn’t tell by blind eye (or without a map).

The wind and sea was definitely in their favor.

[Strickler Anchors]

Nomura takes this time to venture below deck, and sees the disheveled mess of the place. A hovel of someone ‘letting go’. Such a clutter it was a miracle it didn’t get in the way. The ship itself was spotless, but its _contents_ \- everywhere.

Strickler walked below in time to see the face Nomura was making. Silently he waited for the rude joke, or prattling comment of always having to clean up after Strickler’s drunken messes. And other things Strickler knew he deserved. Instead Nomura looked sad.

He hated that more.

“You loved her very much.” she said very low. Not wanting to disturb the ghost and shadows of wallowing self pitying and self destructiveness of the past that still haunted below deck.

Strickler gave no reaction, but walked back up to the deck. Nomura followed biting her lop.

“Stricklander.” She hesitantly called. When a fear gripped her, she rushed up to the deck following him. “Wait!”

He picked up the harpoon, Nomura gulped imagining they’ll fight now - A _h_ , went a voice in Nomura’s head, _that’s why they sailed out to nowhere_.

Without looking at her Strickler grabbed a net, mask, and snorkel. And much to Nomura’s defensive surprise, initiated no combat.

He ignored any other attempts she made to get his attention. Even the mention of “let’s drink over this.” Or pulling on his arm that was painfully reminiscent to Strickler of when Nomura was young.

As tempting as it was, Nomura decided to not get violent. Not yet at least. She had been party to many of Strickler’s low moments before, and as the Shigir stories go, cleverness outmatches brute strength - always.

Strickler sat at the stern, with his feet in the water, he rinsed his mask in the water. Spitting in it nicely and wiping the plastic with his finger, only to rinse it in the sea again.

Nomura felt like she was slowly descending into a Hemingway story.

“We don’t have time for this!” was the last Strickler distantly heard before snapping the mask on his face and plopping into the water, harpoon and net in hand.

Strickler was gone for nearly four hours. In that time Nomura did the smallest attempt at tidying, if only to keep her head away from worrying.

When she quickly became fed up with that she went back to pacing on the deck. Looking out into the horizon for anything. She concentrated on a speck that was slowly ambling closer. The more she concentrated and leaned forward, the less she paid attention to her surroundings.

Causing her to inevitably jump at the sound of Strickler blowing water out of his snorkel.

She whirled around back to the stern in time to see him cling to the ladder and place the harpoon on board.

“I know.” he said before Nomura could go off on him. He now placed the fruits of his labor on board - in the netted bag was a bundle of sea urchin and a single tiny octopus.

She crossed her arms frowning.

He squinted and took the snorkel and mask off. “Pass me that will you - the two buckets.”

Ringing the water out of his beard he solely took a fishing knife out of one bucket.

He pulled himself up with a small grunt to turn and sit on the stern. His voice level and hollow as he began to explain, “We don’t have proof Gunmar-”

“Do you really want to risk it?”

“Either way the Janus Order has no need of me - neither does Jim. He’s very competent.” Strickler filled the bucket with sea water and placed the octopus inside it. His attention moved to the sea urchin.

Nomura crouched beside him, holding a rail for added balance. “The Order is in shambles after the supposed taste of freedom you gave them.” Strickler laughed at this. “They think you’re dead.”

Strickler paused to consider how this made him feel, but all he felt was numb. “Good.” he cut an urchin in half with the fish knife and slurped up the insides raw. “I might as well be. I’m surprised Gunmar hasn’t snapped my familiar’s neck yet.”

“All the more reason to believe he escaped the Darklands!”

She was right, Strickler knew - and hated this. With a lowered head he chucked the hollowed, used, and eaten urchin into the sea.

“Grand, just, just _bloody_ grand.” A kaleidoscope of emotions occurred rapidly. He bitterly groaned, laughed, and sighed.

Carefully Strickler sat the knife safely down, and slipped back into the sea to scream underwater. Bubbles streamed from the sides of his mouth nearly obscuring his contoured face.

The tiny octopus swam helplessly in circles in its bucket. Nomura wasn’t sure what was sadder to watch.

Temper-tantrum subsided Strickler and Nomura sat side by side, their feet hanging off the end and occasionally dipping into the sea with the slow rocking motion of the boat. Together they shared the freshly caught sea urchin.

There was quite a long time of silence, and about 3 shared sea urchin, before Strickler finally spoke. “I’ve got three days of fresh water and petrol left - it’ll only be a waste to not use it up before dry-docking this girl.” he gave the boat a loving pat. Forgoing a wistful sigh to cut another urchin in half and pass it to Nomura.

“It’ll be a nice farewell turn.”

A hollow laugh tumbled passed Strickler’s beard, like wind in a damp cave. “And then straight to Arcadia…it’ll take time getting the tickets and packing..”

Nomura eyed him and slurred her urchin.

“Kidding - we’ll take the gyre.”

“Good.” She chucked the empty urchin, and watched it slowly sink away. “Listen…Stricklander, I-”

Strickler eyed her, almost worriedly, at her sudden softer tone.

“If you..” she fumbled to continue, “I know a thing or two about, well - heartbreak can be -”

Strickler cut Nomura off by pushing her into the water.

Breaching the surface with a shiver, Nomura did her best to splash water at his laughing face. It was a full bellied laugh, with a smile that nearly dropped years away from his tanned olive face. Slowly, she started laughing as well.

“Good grief.” she exhaled into the water, letting herself sink some to cause bubbles.

Strickler leaned forward, gripping on the ladder, to help her up. “I have a change of clothes you can use.”

She accepted the hand. “It better not be a fucking turtleneck.”

Half way up Strickler let go of her hand and watched her fall back into the sea with a surprised yelp.

Strickler continued his snort laugh all the way while Nomura climbed up the ladder, took the fish knife from Strickler’s hand, and kicked him overboard.

Not that he resisted.

**[** To expand on in the future…. - **ALSO LAST CHANCE TO BACK AWAY TO AVOID END OF ACT I SPOILERS** -

They have pasta with, the main guest of honor - the octopus.

They talk about Jim finding out Walter left without saying goodbye.

Nomura forked and swirled the octopus pasta, incredulous, “You trek through half of the Darklands with this child - and you don’t say goodbye?!”

“He was..having a moment, kissing Claire and I - he doesn’t need me.”

Nomura ends up explaining that, obviously, survey says otherwise.

Strickler: “I didn’t want to risk Gunmar destroying my familiar, and in turn me, while being out and about in Arcadia. Or worse, in front of Jim.” **]**

Later that night…

Strickler is sleeping on a hammock on deck, while Nomura sleeps in Strickler’s bed below.

The dead of night, with a slight breeze strong enough for the boat to rock.

A few kl off a yacht passes. Its waves strong enough for the sailboat to lean and rock more than it has in all the time Nomura was on it.

A sailboat, with the right conditions, has the capacity to lean almost 45 degrees without flipping or sinking. Strickler knew this - Nomura didn’t.

Strickler dreams, practicing being lucid in the dream, as if it would activate the presence of his patron and creator: Morgana. But nothing seemed to be manifesting, he was either too tired, or drunk to have them, Strickler wasn’t sure.

Though with all the rocking and watery wet sounds hitting against the side of the ship - it informed his subconscious and uprooted a bedroom memory instead - and a passionate one at that.

It was very pleasant, in that heart rendering feral yearning sort of way. Like the way acts of passion can be used as means of not thinking.

Barbara was looking down at him, elbows forward by his head while rocking above - he below - and after a few kisses she spoke to him with Nomura’s voice, “Stricklander, you need to get up.”

He blinked confused, she moaned but in a far from pleased way - it sounded more like a groan of frustration.

“Darling?” Strickler lifted a hand to her cheek, she slapped it away.

She was shaking him now, “Stricklander! It’s sinking! Your boat!! Wake UP!”

Before Strickler’s fluttering eyes Barbara melted away, like ice to water, and transformed into Nomura - whose eyes were glowing in panic.

“GET. UP! _Please_!!” She was pulling him off of the hammock now - Strickler let himself roll off, catching himself in time despite how stiff he felt.

“What?” Strickler heard himself say in a sleepy gravel.

“We’re sinking!!”

“Wher-?”

“Below!” Stammered Nomura. Rocks don’t always do well on water, and by now Nomura’s nerves were wavering, “I’m going to be pulled under - I don’t want to go down. I don’t, it’s dark, I don’t, I don’t.”

“Steady Nomura, we still have our tricks.” By instinct Strickler grabbed Nomura, hugging her close, ready to turn and fly off the boat taking her to safety - but his gut turned at the thought - the sound of engines filling his ears, silk parachutes flapping.

“It’ll be fine.” He steadied and rushed down the stairs sliding down the railing with his legs lifted.

Nomura paced at the threshold unsure what form was best suited for the moment. Trying to keep herself from hyperventilating.

Strickler, looking through the dark with glowing eyes, couldn’t spot any tell tale signs of a leak. The floor wasn’t wet, there was no water level to speak of for Nomura to spot mid sleep.

“Did you end up sleeping in the engine room?” Strickler called to her.

“N-no, the pull out bed.”

Strickler turned, still no sign of a leak whether visual or audible.

The blankets were strewn about, a few articles had moved from some rocking he must have slept through and-

“Ah.” Strickler noticed, upon bracing through another rocking moon, the porthole window by the pullout was open.

He stepped closer and noticed water on the edge and the dampness by Nomura’s pillow.

Water must have sprayed through.

Technically it shouldn’t have been able to open at all. This wasn’t some old fashioned cruise liner after all. “Now I remember what I was supposed to fix before heading out. Damn.” he grumbled, irritated at himself. Fully accepting the fault.

He could still hear Nomura pacing and muttering to herself, “We’re sinking. I’m sinking. We’re going to sink.”

“Nomura” Strickler called up to her, scratching his beard and moving to the kitchen to boil some hot water. “Nomura we’re fine.”

Strickler turned a few lights on. Nomura was still shaking - now in troll form. Far from shaking she was visibly Welling with glazed eyes.

He winced at the potential damage her stone hooves were slowly causing on the wooden deck. Then, with a heavy guilty heart, he slowly walked up the stairs.

“Nomura we’re not…” she was pacing - gently he placed a hand on her shoulder, it helped coax her out of her trance. “We’re not sinking. Some water flew in through the, the blasted window.” guilt enriched his voice, softening it, “It’s my fault, I forgot I needed to fix it. Did you hear me? We’re alright.”

Nomura nodded distractedly. “I, I swear it - I” her ears lowered, “I couldn’t breathe.”

Strickler nodded patiently, rubbing the side of her arms consolingly. Gently he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “I’ve put the kettle on - we can have a sit-down.”

Nomura’s head rested atop of his, and after a while her shaking calmed to become moderate tremors.

The kettle was whistling by the time she spoke.

“I” he voice was soft, insecure, “I don’t want to go undergroun- below deck.” she corrected.

Then we’ll stay right here.” Strickler consoled - stepping back and gently guiding her to his hammock for her to sit. He bundled her in his blanket. “I’ll be right back.” he said stepping away.

Nomura hesitated to let go of him.

“I promise.” said Strickler gently, “Or I perform my last trick and the Pale Lady take me.”

“On Shigir’s horns?”

“On Shigir’s horns.” he nodded.

Nomura gave a reluctant nod and drew the blanket tighter around her.

After a short while Strickler returned tray in hand with two cups of chamomile tea, and a buttered croissant.

Nomura was looking skyward - her form now human.

“Thank you.” she said as Strickler passed her a cup.

“Beautiful starry night.” he placed the tray on his lap carefully, and sat beside her. “Tomorrow should be another clear day.”

“How do you know.” Nomura squinted as if the answer was spelled out in the stars.

“Just a guess.” he shrugged.

They sat in shared, comfortable silence for some time. Starring at the sky.

At some point Strickler turned to glance at Nomura. She had tears streaming down her face like giant globs of sorrow as she nursed her tea.

Strickler raised his hand, unsure whether to rub her back or not.

The tears didn’t stop, as Nomura’s voice choked with emotion. “Thank you - I’m sorry.” she bowed her head and started to shake with repressed sobs.

Strickler decided that this was a good occasion as any to rub a friend’s back.

Nomura kept leaning forward until her back was to the sky. Strickler had to lean back some to counter the weight on the hammock.

Tears dripped into Nomura’s tea. “I - I, I know it’s silly. We all grew up, somewhat in, in the Darklands, and yet..” she struggled to explain with a warbling voice.

In Strickler’s opinion there wasn’t much _to_ explain. The Darklands was no hotel resort. No feeling of freedom ever inhabited the land.

What made Strickler shudder most of all was that, while he was flouncing about on the surface who knows what torture an enraged grieving Gunmar had performed on Nomura.

Strickler paused in his soothing back rub, and realized he had much to be guilty for indeed, and continued his gentle rubbing.

“It’s alright.” Strickler encouraged gently. “You can let it out…there’s no one here. Just us, and the sea.”

The cup shook in Nomura’s hands. Strickler coaxed it safely out and sat it down, watching as her fists bawled with white knuckles, while growing sobs heaved in waves - and the lonely sailboat rocked amongst the sea.

Her voice bounced off the near by rock formations. Years, _decades_ , of frustrations and emotion bellowed out of Nomura. Her body arched up, and casted her wails from her knees to the indifferent sky above.

“It’s not fair it’s not Faaaair! Why, Whyyyy!” Nomura leaned against Strickler, and punched his shoulder. “You went to the Darklands for a human - and not for, no one would - it wouldn’t be right - make sense - yet you helped that _human_. Why are _we_ like this?! Why do changelings _have_ to be this way?!?”

Tears fell from Strickler’s eyes now silently. At a loss of what to say - aside from lame apologies. “I’m, I’m sorry Nomura..”

She shook her head sniffling, “There’s nothing to be sorry _for_! That’s the _point_ \- we’re not - not -” She looked at her fleshy hand uncurling it with a shaking emotion. “ _Human_. We’re not human. It’s-” Nomura punched his shoulder again and grappled at Strickler’s shirt. Trying to hang on to reason, sense, anything at this point. “It’s not our way. It’s not fair. Always backstabbing and letting others rot.”

A near hysterical laughed escaped her red tear stained face, “What changeling would go into the Darklands for a single comrade? Not even Shigir - in all their cleverness - could justify it.”

Nomura rubbed some snot on her wrist and in a bout of post wailing exhaustion leaned her forehead on Strickler’s shoulder. Shoulder’s still shaking. "Why do we have to be this way? Why are we like this??”

Strickler hugged Nomura tighter, as if it could squeeze all the aching sadness out, and rested his chin on her head this time. “Search me.” he sighed wearily. He thumbed her shoulder - while his own shoulder absorbed more of Nomura’s tears.

After a few seagulls cried in the night and the sound of the sea started to replace the sound of Nomura’s crying, Strickler said “Then let’s not be. _We_ don’t have to be like them. Not anymore at least. We’re capable of change as much as any other living thing, maybe..maybe even more so. Eh?” Strickler never let go of Nomura and placed a hand gently at the back of her head. “We can give it a try. Us and the world. And, and I’ll do better this time Nomura.” he promised hopefully as parents sometimes did.

Nomura said nothing, but sniffled, and, finally, wrapped her arms around Strickler in return. Her body slowly relaxing.

Strickler peaceably hummed _Solveig's Song_ while smoothing Nomura’s hair - and could have sworn he heard Nomura say, “Who cares what the world thinks.”

They didn’t move from that position for a very long time. And when they did, it was for Strickler to pass Nomura the buttered croissant, and rearrange themselves to share the hammock.

Entangled in each others arms, and shared blankets, Strickler and Nomura drifted off to sleep, gently rocked under the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
